Welcome To Baker Street
by MagnusSpark
Summary: Series of drabbles and oneshots about Watson and Holmes, purely because I don't have the time to come up with a proper story. Title subject to change. R&R.
1. Chapter 1

I don't have time to write a fulll length fic, so I've decided to compile all my drabbles and oneshots into one collection. If you enjoy, feel free to review. =]

Disclaimer; I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

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Watson stumbled into the cluttered sitting room and sat down heavily with a sigh. Rubbing his eyes wearily, he balanced his cane against his side and laid his head against the back of the chair. The doctor's skin was pale and dark bags hung underneath his eyes, making him seem years older. Watson slowed his breathing, willing his sore and aching muscles to ease up enough to allow him to rest.

He had been working flat out with the latest bout of sickness that was sweeping through London, and tonight was the first time he had made it back to Baker Street for days. He had not slept, barely eaten and had been exposed to the wails and moans of the dying and grieving for nigh on three days straight, and his head was throbbing. However it was nothing compared to the raw pain in his leg, loudly complaining at him being on his feet so much. Walking for Watson was not a pleasure, but a necessity to get from A to B.

As tired as he was, the usually alert doctor did not stir as the door creaked open, Holmes's head poking around cautiously. 'Watson, old boy, are you awake?'

Apparently not. Holmes entered the room fully and stood with folded arms, observing his friend. Obviously Watson was suffering from severe exhaustion, and had passed out. Most unlike him too, Holmes pondered, leaning over and peering closely into Watson's face - he usually managed to at least make it to his room before collapsing in a heap. It must be his leg paining him, deduced Holmes, noting the cane lying haphazardly against Watson's leg. He really must learn to rest it up more often, tutted Holmes. Trust the doctor never to take his own advice...

Prodding Watson's cheek with his index finger, Holmes was unsettled by his friend's pale complexion and lined face. No, Watson needed lots of sleep and rehydration, and for Holmes to lock him in his room so that he could not escape to play martyr to the masses. No matter how dedicated Watson was to saving others lives, Holmes felt that keeping his friend safe and well was much more important right now.

Standing back, he sized up the situation and rubbed his hands together briskly. He was going to have to carry Watson to his bedroom himself. He couldn't possibly leave his comrade sleeping awkwardly on a chair, albeit a comfy one. Rolling up his sleeves, Holmes grabbed Watson under the knees and looped his other arm around his back and lifted him with a grunt.

He was surprised; Watson was much lighter than he had expected. For a man taller than Holmes, although a slender enough man, Watson really should weigh more. It must be the last few days taking their toll, Holmes thought, deciding to watch what Watson ate for the next few days, possibly buying him a big steak to fatten him up a bit.

Opening the door with his elbow, Holmes carried the doctor over to his bed and lay him down carefully, laying his head on the soft pillows. Grasping Watson's jacket, he gently slid him out of his, and removed the dark waistcoat underneath. Now was the tricky bit... to remove the shirt or not? He knew from past experiences of bursting into Watson's room at spontaneous times due to his delight at an experiment or as such, that Watson preferred to sleep without the constriction of clothes. He had, however, taken up wearing a long pyjama top, to ease the embarrassment when Holmes inevitably bursts into his chambers.

Choosing comfort, Holmes tenderly unbuttoned the shirt and slid it off before moving onto Watson's shoes and trousers, leaving him in his underwear. Smiling at the sight of his friend snuffling in his sleep, he pulled the warm duvet up around Watson's shoulders, allowing the doctor to curl up underneath it and settle down. Really, his Watson was an overgrown child sometimes.

Drawing the curtains, Holmes slid out of the room quietly, not wanting to wake the sleeping man. 'Goodnight Watson.'

'Hmmhm...G'night Holmes...'


	2. Chapter 2

It's been exactly six hours since you've been gone, Watson, and I still don't know what to do with myself. I must admit, it certainly is an odd feeling this sense of loss. I know exactly where to find you and I know that unless some grave misfortune has befallen you since I saw you last that you are safe and well. Yet the same thoughts linger; have you remembered to take the pain medication for your back? Are your wounds still paining you? Do you need to rest your leg? All most improbable worries with you being in the profession that you are, but as your friend it is my right to be concerned. I may be careless with myself, but never with you, my friend...

I know the wound on your shoulder and back has been throbbing. Hastily concealed winces passed through you as I watched from the window, confirming my concerns, as you carried the last of your belongings to the cab. You should never have rushed back into action so soon after your release from the hospital, and I sorely regret allowing it. But again, who am I to tell the good doctor how to go about his practice? And may I note, don't think that I remain unawares of your decision to discharge yourself early. I'm not the detective for nothing, old boy!

Six hours, and I fear I am well on the way to wearing a hole in the carpet with my incessant pacing. Gladstone was straining his neck trying to keep up with me as he watched, so I slipped him a little something to help him sleep... After you had left I sat in your room for God knows how long – yes I call it your room, as it shall always be. It smelt like you, like peppermint and ink, with the faint odour of cadaver; my apologies about that, Watson.

Dear Watson, I wonder what is to become of me! No, that sounds terribly morbid, let me rephrase. Watson, how am I ever going to manage living here alone, with only our dog and Mrs Hudson for company? Not the greatest minds to pass the time with consuming discussions, like we used to on a cold winters eve. So when will I see you next? When will your busy new schedule allow a visit to an old friend?

It is only now that I can truly acknowledge the full impact you have had on my life. The great Sherlock Holmes, sitting alone twiddling his thumbs at the departure of his Watson! An absurd notion to comprehend, surely, but truer words were never spoken. I fear it is not the same as before, when I shut myself away for nigh on two weeks until you burst in and showed me the light. I cannot distract myself with petty trinkets and ineffectual toys this time, it all feels too empty without you there to share it with. For who else would be able to even grasp the inventions of my unrefined mind, and jostle me into another case?

And how, may I ask, will I be able to take on any more cases? I have told you before as I will tell you once more now, Watson, the plain fact that I need you here by my side for that. I need you here as my voice of reason, my mother hen, as my anchor in a world that often overwhelms me...

But now you have your Mary. Your dainty flower who is slowly taking you away from me and covering her tracks with her floral scent. Yes, so I may be being a tad unfair to your lady, but the woman is even taking away your minty smell with her overpowering aroma.

I always needed time on my own, to think or simply not to, to lose myself for days at a time. And you were always there when I emerged, hungry and exhausted, ready to pull me back into the real world... Alas, it is not as if you have left me for the afterlife, and I find myself gaining more and more melodramatic as I continue.

I will end this now, still uncertain if I will ever pluck up the courage to let you set eyes upon it. Maybe I needed to do this in a purely therapeutic fashion, to sort out my thoughts and wipe the slate clean. All I know is this; I will be always be here for you no matter what happens. I will not forsake years of friendship for any woman, so I suppose I must 'grin and bear it', as you so adequately put it. And I shall. You have my word.

Yours,

_Sherlock Holmes_


End file.
